University of Virginia Library

9. IX.
PYROTECHNY.

I.—THE PEACEFUL HAMLET.

Nestling among the grandhills of New
Hampshire, in the United States of America,
is a village called Waterbury.

Perhaps you were never there.

I do not censure you if you never were.

One can get on very well without going
to Waterbury.

Indeed, there are millions of meritorious
persons who were never there, and yet
they are happy.

In this peaceful hamlet lived a young
man named Pettingill.

Reuben Pettingill.

He was an agriculturist.

A broad-shouldered, deep-chested agriculturist.

He was contented to live in this peaceful
hamlet.

He said it was better than a noisy
Othello.

Thus do these simple children of nature
joke in a first class manner.

II.—MYSELF.

I write this romance in the French style.

Yes: something that way.

The French style consists of making just
as many paragraphs as possible.

Thus one may fill up a collumn in a
very short time.

I am paid by the collumn, and the quicker
I can fill up a collumn—but this is a matter
to which we will not refer.

We will let this matter pass.

III.—PETTINGILL.

Reuben Pettingill was extremely industrious.

He worked hard all the year round on
his father's little farm.

Right he was!

Industry is a very fine thing.

It is one of the finest things of which we
have any knowledge.

Yet no not frown, “do not weep for me,”
when I state that I don't like it.

It doesn't agree with me.

I prefer indolence.

I am happiest when I am idle.

I could live for months without performing
any kind of labour, and at the expiration
of that time I should feel fresh and
vigorous enough to go right on in the same
way for numerous more months.

This should not surprise you.

Nothing that a modern novellist does
should excite astonishment in any wellregulated
mind.

IV.—INDEPENDENCE DAY.

The 4th of July is always celebrated in
America with guns, and processions, and
banners, and all those things.

You know why we celebrate this day.

The American Revolution, in 1775, was
perhaps one of the finest revolutions that
was ever seen. But I have not time to

give you a full history of the American
Revolution. It would consume years to do
it, and I might weary you.

One 4th of July, Reuben Pettingil went
to Boston.

He saw great sights.

He saw the dense throng of people, the
gay volunteers, the banners, and, above all,
he saw the fireworks.

I despise myself for using so low a word,
but the fireworks “licked” him.

A new world was opened to this young
man.

He returned to his parents and the little
farm among the hills, with his heart full of
fireworks.

He said, “I will make some myself.”

He said this while eating a lobster on
top of the coach.

He was an extraordinarily skilful young
man in the use of a common clasp-knife.

With that simple weapon he could make,
from soft wood, horses, dogs, cats, &c. He
carved excellent soldiers also.

I remember his masterpiece.

It was “Napoleon crossing the Alps.”

Looking at it critically, I should say it
was rather short of Alps.

An Alp or two more would have improved
it: but, as a whole, it was a wonderful
piece of work; and what a wonderful
piece of work is a wooden man, when his
legs and arms are all right.

V.—WHAT THIS YOUNG MAN SAID.

He said, “I can make just as good fireworks
as them in Boston.”

“Them” was not grammatical, but why
care for grammar as long as we are good?

VI.—THE FATHER'S TEARS.

Pettingill neglected the farm.

He said that it might till itself—he should
manufacture some gorgeous fireworks, and
exhibit them on the village green on the
next 4th of July.

He said the Eagle of Fame would flap
his wings over their humble roof ere many
months should pass away.

“If he does,” said old Mr. Pettingill, “we

must shoot him, and bile him, and eat him,
because we shall be rather short of meat,
my son, if you go on in this lazy way.”

And the old man wept.

He shed over 120 gallons of tears.

That is to say, a puncheon. But by all
means let us avoid turning this romance
into a farce.

VII.—PYROTECHNY.

But the headstrong young man went to
work, making fireworks.

He bought and carefully studied a work
on pyrotechny.

The villagers knew that he was a remarkably
skilful young man, and they all
said, “We shall have a great treat next 4th
of July.”

Meanwhile Pettingill worked away.

VIII.—THE DAY.

The great day came at last.

Thousands poured into the little village
from far and near.

There was an oration, of course.

IX.—ORATORY IN AMERICA.

Yes; there was an oration.

We have a passion for oratory in America—political
oratory chiefly.

Our political orators never lose a chance
to “express their views.”

They will do it. You cannot stop them.

There was an execution in Ohio one
day, and the Sheriff, before placing the
rope round the murderer's neck, asked him
if he had any remarks to make?

“If he hasn't,” said a well-known local
orator, pushing his way rapidly through
the dense crowd to the gallows—“if our
ill-starred feller-citizen don't feel inclined
to make a speech, and is in no hurry, I
should like to avail myself of the present
occasion to make some remarks on the
necessity of a new protective tariff!”

X.—PETTINGILL'S FIREWORKS.

As I said in Chapter VIII., there was an
oration. There were also processions, and
guns, and banners.

“This evening,” said the chairman of
the committee of arrangements, “this evening,
fellow-citizens, there will be a grand
display of fireworks on the village green,
superintended by the inventor and manufacturer,
our public-spirited townsman, Mr.
Reuben Pettingill.”

Night closed in, and an immense concourse
of people gathered on the village
green.

On a raised platform, amidst his fireworks,
stood Pettingill.

He felt that the great hour of his life
was come, and, in a firm, clear voice, he
said:

“The fust fireworks, feller-citizens, will
be a rocket, which will go up in the air,
bust, and assume the shape of a serpint.”

He applied a match to the rocket, but
instead of going up in the air, it flew wildly
down into the grass, running some distance
with a hissing kind of sound, and causing
the masses to jump round in a very insane
manner.

Pettingill was disappointed, but not disheartened.
He tried again.

“The next fireworks,” he said, “will go
up in the air, bust, and become a beautiful
revolvin' wheel.”

But, alas! it didn't. It only ploughed a
little furrow in the green grass, like its unhappy
predecessor.

The masses laughed at this, and one
man—a white-haired old villager—said,
kindly but firmly, “Reuben, I'm 'fraid you
don't understand pyrotechny.”

Reuben was amazed. Why did his
rockets go down instead of up? But, perhaps,
the others would be more successful;
and, with a flushed face, and in a voice
scarcely as firm as before, he said:

“The next specimen of pyrotechny will
go up in the air, bust, and become a eagle.
Said eagle will soar away into the western
skies, leavin' a red trail behind him as he
so soars.”

But, alas! again. No eagle soared, but,
on the contrary, that ordinarily proud bird
buried its head in the grass.

The people were dissatisfied. They
made sarcastic remarks. Some of them
howled angrily. The aged man, who had

before spoken, said, “No, Reuben, you evidently
don't understand pyrotechny.”

Pettingill boiled with rage and disappointment.

“You don't understand pyrotechny!”
the masses shouted.

Then they laughed in a disagreeable
manner, and some unfeeling lads threw dirt
at our hero.

“You don't understand pyrotechny!”
the masses yelled again.

“Don't I?” screamed Pettingill, wild with
rage; “don't you think I do?”

Then seizing several gigantic rockets he
placed them over a box of powder, and
touched the whole off.

This rocket went up. It did, indeed.

There was a terrific explosion.

No one was killed, fortunately; though
many were injured.

The platform was almost torn to pieces.

But proudly erect among the falling timbers
stood Pettingill, his face flashing with
wild triumph; and he shouted: “If I'm
any judge of pyrotechny, that rocket has
went off.”

Then seeing that all the fingers on his
right hand had been taken close off in the
explosion, he added: “And I ain't so dreadful
certain but four of my fingers has went
off with it, because I don't see 'em here
now!”